


Flatmates

by debunker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dating, Fluff, I couldn't resist, Jim from IT, John does not exist, M/M, Sexual Tension, Sheriarty - Freeform, bit of angst, jimlock, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is looking for a flatmate and Jim from IT needs one too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, this is Jim I have told you about". Molly made a small gesture introducing a shy-looking young man in tight jeans. Sherlock took his time to shift his attention from the dissected slices of brain under his microscope to his potential flatmate.  
"Looking for a place then?"  
"I..."  
"Don't tell me anything, I need none of your ready information."  
"He deduces people." Molly gave Jim a cautious look as if that was a diagnosis. Jim chuckled softly and smiled at Sherlock daringly.  
The detective's quick eyes immediately started studying his appearance looking for clues. Pale, sensitive skin, a bit reddened around the eyelids, evident lack of vitamins but applies some treatment to his lips to keep them soft, otherwise they would be broken after hours of work in front of the pc and liters of coffee, clearly from IT, judging by the characteristic posture and the neck protruded at a painful angle, hardly very sporty, occasional gym goer but mostly for the purpose of hooking up, tight jeans, narrow hips, pretty long legs, no watches, must be always checking his phone for notifications from dating sites that is why no watch is needed, hardly ever leaving UK, not now anyway as money is always a bit of a problem, thrifted tshirt but he knows the place is in Central London so the image comes first. Vain, gay, not against adventure considering the desire to go see a flat with a stranger with the reputation of a weirdo.  
As those thought flashed through Sherlock's mind within a second the guy stepped in and offered Sherlock his palm.  
"Jim Moriarty, hi. Molly told me everything about you."  
He nodded and squeezed Sherlock's hand with his own. Its bouncy softness made Sherlock think of a snake curling itself around a rabbit tasting the vibration of its still beating heart. Sherlock looked into the warmish eyes and did not find his own reflection in them. Must have been the trick the lab lights played. Jim stood just a bit too close and his trainers were contrasting with Sherlock's dandyish shoes, another step would have closed the gap between them completely. Jim finally let his hand go but his touch kept living on Sherlock's skin.  
"She hardly knows anything significant. Sorry, Molly, but your deduction skills can be characterized as non-existent." Molly's cheeks flushed and she did not manage to suppress an offended "oh" but swallowed her response. Jim darted her a curious look, which revealed no compassion but just interest in her reaction.  
"So, come tonight and we will see the flat, the address is 221b Baker St."  
He could have poured down all his deductions on him but felt Jim somehow was well aware of the impression he was producing. Sherlock was surprised by a slightest change in his expression when he absorbed his figure with his gaze. Instead he took the final gulp of his coffee and the drink in his mug was a close metaphor of Jim's eyes: brown, lukewarm, oily, hiding some movement in the depth.  
He stormed out of the lab leaving the empty mug and the two people behind.  
"Yes, he's always like that." Molly sounded both hurt and fascinated. Jim guessed that was a general feeling for most people crossing paths with the great detective. He could not wait for his turn to come.  
They met the same evening at Baker St. Jim followed him up the stairs to an old flat full of dust and random objects. Stepping into the living room he brushed his fingertips against the edges of the worn furniture looking around. He saw a violin left in the armchair with a pile of papers with notes on them, some cancelled and rewritten.  
"I have a habit of playing when I'm thinking, composing a bit too." However Sherlock's explanation felt like overexplaining. Jim's apparent plainness could not disguise the spark of quick understanding in his eyes.  
"I like classical music."  
He touched the skull sitting patiently on the mantelpiece but Sherlock promptly stopped his hand grabbing his wrist with a gesture which was oppressive and insecure at the same time. Oppressive because of his determination to stop anyone who would bother his silent friend and insecure because the human contact was clearly something he was not comfortable with. Jim let him keep his hand for a second before dropping it and looked down at his wrist. The ghost touch of Sherlock's fingers still lingered on him like a bracelet he never wore.  
"I have already moved some of my things in here", Sherlock informed making Jim smile indulgingly: of course, you did, the place is already full of your junk.  
Sherlock paced around the flat opening doors and leading the way for Jim as if he were the landlord. His hastiness and excessive theatricality were met by Jim's calmness making Sherlock a bit confused and not knowing how to hide it. He was only used to awe or irritation in response to his actions. No one would keep calm like Jim did.  
He only lost his cool a bit when Sherlock showed him his bedroom which he had taken possession of leaving no choice to his potential flatmate. Jim leaned to the doorframe observing the impossible mess Sherlock had made of his room with books and clothes on each horizontal surface. Sherlock snapped his gaze and their eyes met halfway between them where Sherlock's bed stood.  
"There is another room upstairs", Sherlock ushered him out and could bet he had heard an answer in a slightly mocking voice.  
"I don't mind being on top."  
Sherlock froze a second before going ahead. Sex was a mere technical knowledge in his possession but he felt uncomfortable with erotic allusions as he never knew how to react. Laugh would have been the acknowledgement of having heard and got the joke as well as the understanding of an open statement regarding Jim's sexuality. Sherlock avoided making statements regarding his own and felt scrutinized by those brown eyes he could feel were consuming the back of his head. He turned up the collar of his coat to protect it. Feeling exposed was not part of his program for the evening.  
"So, if you agree I will tell Mrs. Hudson you'll move in."  
A couple of days later Sherlock found himself helping Jim bring his PC and laptops upstairs. Jim had already organized his clothes and shoes in his room which was smaller and had no bathroom access. But he did seem happy with it. All he needed was a desk for his working from home.  
Sherlock observed his stuff. Cables, disks, flash drives, keyboards, more cables, mouses, books, anonymous boxes. He did not like the feeling he had no idea of what to do with all those objects while Jim did. Their hands touched at some point when they placed a particularly heavy box on the desk. Sherlock held his breath. That was unnerving for him, staying with Jim in a reduced closed space with dim light. He felt the air thickened between them. He never dreamed of being attracted to his flatmate.  
"Sorry, I need to work."  
He stumbled back leaving awkwardly under Jim's questioning gaze.  
That was past 3 a.m. when Jim went down the stairs woken up by the violin.  
"I am okay with music but not when I sleep." He yawned audibly making Sherlock turn around cutting the air with his unleashed bow.  
His eyes were flashing and his curls were messy. Jim flattened his own black hair. They were both barefoot and in their pajamas. Sherlock almost jumped towards the wall a map was pinned to.  
"Here, you see," he pointed his bow at the red tangled line traced over what turned out to be a map of London, "there must be a pattern, these are the crimes I have been working on for the last several months and I know, I'm sure they are connected," his voice dropped to a low whisper urging Jim to get closer to hear him, "it is a pattern drawn by one person, there is the same wicked mind behind all those plans, I just can't prove it for now."  
Jim gave him a very long look, the one Sherlock was used to in the police office and at scenes of crime. Disbelief, poignant doubt.  
"And what would be the purpose? The final purpose I mean?" Jim's tone changed a bit, he seemed interested.  
"To get to me. Something big is coming." Jim almost giggled at Sherlock's narcissistic expression.  
"So you think he - or is it she ? - is constructing crimes to get you?"  
Sherlock nodded boring his eyes into the map.  
"He leaves clues for me."  
He turned on his heels staring at the opposite wall but was seeing something inside himself, watching something inside his mind, listening to the voice of his logic telling him the possible scenarios.  
"He is getting closer." He turned around to look at Jim standing by the map scratching his head. "Coming closer." He drew a circle with the tip of his bow delineating the area where the crimes had been committed. Jim's eyes opened wider.  
"And you have no idea of who he is?"  
"No, he never reveals himself, there are no proofs of his involvement. He has a dangerous mind, dangerous but great."  
Jim shivered a bit.  
"Do you think it is safe for me to stay here?"  
Sherlock dismissed him with a quick look.  
"He only is concerned about me."  
It almost sounded like boasting.  
"He is obsessed." Jim seemed to be getting the situation.  
Sherlock flashed his eyes at him. Maybe he had underestimated him.  
"Quite so."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim are now flatmates. While on their way to Angelo's Lestrade calls Sherlock because there are news from the mysterious criminal playing games with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here it goes. This AU just grabbed me. I am a little ashamed of leaving other unfinished ff neglected but right now I am on holiday and just don't have enough angst to spill as it has been temporarily replaced with tequila sunrise.  
> I hope you will enjoy this take on Sherlock and Jim as much as I do. I think there will be about 3 other chapters soon and this will do.  
> I am writing and posting it from my phone so please excuse typos, I will fix them eventually.

"I'll be in 5 minutes."

Jim dashed out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his hips and ran upstairs.

Sherlock was glad he had some time on his own while Jim was getting dressed. He himself was already fully clothed and sitting in his armchair. The flash view of Jim's almost naked frame left him more than stirred. At least by the time he was back Sherlock would regain his usual non-caring look.  
In the cab he shifted on his seat to get farther from Jim sitting down with his legs splayed out. Jim gave him a shiny smile.  
"What is this place we are heading to?"  
"Angelo's".

Sherlock turned his head just slightly only to notice red marks on Jim's neck. He couldn't help staring at it for a second. Jim grinned in response.  
"Lovebites." He shrugged his shoulders naughtily. "Should have brought a scarf."  
Sherlock adjusted his blue scarf nervously.  
"Are you hiding something under it?" Jim's joyful malice was met by Sherlock's impassive face. He really just wanted to have dinner as set. Just a dinner in order to eat something different from ready meals from Tesco and have a friendly chat with his new flatmate. He did not need to imagine him getting lovebites and explaining why he himself could never ever get any.  
Mercifully, his mobile phone rang. Sherlock was never happier to hear Lestrade's voice.  
"Sherlock," he sighed heavily clearly very troubled, "we've got another one."  
Sherlock all tensed up like a bloodhound and Jim could almost see his curls standing up and his back getting straighter than usual.  
"Change of program." It was his turn to grin cheekely at Jim. Nothing could excite him more than a good old murder.  
Sherlock's coming to the police station in company of a good looking guy in tight jeans produced some kind of an exploding bomb effect. In 2 minutes Lestrade's office was full of random people hardly interested in the details the fresh crime. All of them were staring at Sherlock and Jim who sat in an uncomfortable chair with complete nonchalance.  
Lestrade was so troubled by the news that it took him a while to figure out to have to send away all of them but by that time enough data on Sherlock's new supposed boyfriend had been collected.  
"I always knew he was gay." Sally Donovan's whisper to Anderson was loud enough to reach Sherlock's ears.  
Lestrade gave Sherlock a questioning look about Jim.  
"He's with me."  
Lestrade hesitated to start speaking, dreading the leak of inside information but at the end he decided there was no danger.  
"We have another corpse."  
Sherlock's eyes flashed with hungry anticipation as he was hanging over Lestrade's shoulder.  
"Any letters?"  
"Yes. M."  
Jim was listening with one ear and only shivered at the word "corpse".  
"H. Then O. And now M." Sherlock could not help but jumping on his feet to start pacing around the small room. "I need to see the scene of the crime."  
"They have already removed everything." Sherlock turned around furious. Lestrade lifted up his open palms in protection.  
"They did not know. The letter was only found during autopsy."  
"Details. I need details!" Sherlock almost jumped towards him.  
"Male, as usual, white, 35 years, poisoned apparently, found in his flat, gay, probably had a date but no one had seen anyone."  
"HOM. What could this be?" Lestrade rubbed his forehead.  
Sherlock was at a momentarily loss. Hom? An abbreviation? The initials? Will there be more? Homicide?  
"Homosexual?" Jim's supposition made them both dart him flashed glances. He shrugged his shoulders a bit embarassed by the word that had escaped his mouth.  
"Ok, just saying." He pulled an innocent face.

Lestrade scoffed and loooked at Sherlock. Through the glass door he saw Donovan pointing at Jim as she was saying something to a colleague.

"I need to see the corpse!" Sherlock was losing his patience, everything was so slow and he hated wasting time like that. "Have you already brought it to St. Bart's?"  
"Tomorrow." Lestrade stopped him from saying other things. "My experts are working with it today."  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed menacingly.  
"Then why did you need me? If you already have your experts."  
Lestrade gave him a long look.  
"Because I decided to warn you. You believe this could be related to you. You are saying that ash he uses to write letters on the bodies is special."  
Sherlock sniffed the air and turned up the collar of his coat.  
"How kind of you."  
Lestrade sighed.  
"Sherlock, just..."  
Without waiting to hear the second part of his explanation Sherlock headed to the door not looking at Jim but sure he would follow him.  
"Let's go, Jim."  
Jim gestured "sorry" to Lestrade and left under his amused gaze.  
In the cab Sherlock was electric.  
"It has been going on for months," he was talking to Jim but it seemed he needed no interlocutor being too taken by his own thoughts. "It is a game, clearly a clever one. He does nothing to hide corpses. Leaves letters and this is a message. There must be a word or something. The problem is we don't know how many more."  
"And you don't know the word." Jim was a bit troubled by the fact of the recent murder and the perspective of losing their table.  
"Don't worry, Angelo always has a table for me."  
Jim did not even need to ask "how did you?.." even if his face still expressed utter surprise.  
As soon as they stepped into the cozy restaurant their noses were assaulted by the smell of freshly made food. Angelo made them sit in a corner facing the street and brought a candle to add a romantic touch.  
"Anything for you and your date." Angelo flashed his eyes at Sherlock. He was glad to finally see him with someone.  
Jim pulled a strange face.  
"Don't worry, I know you have someone. I mean not that I suggest anything. Not because you are not likeable. Just not for me. Uhm. Actually no one is. Like... I mean... It is just khm... for me... not my..."  
"Higher standards, I see." Jim gave him a teasing smile but he was clearly amused by Sherlock's confused musings.  
"Uhm..." Sherlock was ready to throw himself on any explanation in order to drop this subject. "I'm..."  
"Unattached." Jim took a sip of his red wine Angelo had brought.  
Sherlock nodded. Put it this way.  
"Just like me." Jim's voice was casual but his gaze stopped at Sherlock's lips for a second longer than needed.  
Sherlock looked surprised. His eyes fell upon the telling marks on Jim's neck.  
"Nothing grabs my attention." Jim somehow felt the need to clear it up.  
Sherlock was out of his depth sensing the conversation moving towards the topic of random sex partners. He did not like the way he felt sitting in front of Jim. He was still with his coat on while his flatmate was only wearing a thin t shirt with long sleeves but the one who felt uncovered certainly was not Jim.  
"You should know that I consider myself married to my work." Jim cocked up his eyebrow sucking in spaghetti with red sauce he had previously ordered. Sherlock was stiff and would hardly touch his meat turning cold on the plate.  
"So the mysterious maniac is your love?" Sherlock could not stand the irony in his voice, especially considering it was true.  
"I need to figure it out before he kills again."  
"Of course, you should try and prevent him from getting new victims."  
Jim was really busy with his pasta and Sherlock envied his appetite. Food was not really a thing he would think about at all if he could.  
"I don't care about his victims." Sherlock hissed getting closer to Jim who almost chocked on his wine. "I just want to be smarter than him!"  
For a moment Jim saw the very core of him: a maniac of sorts only concerned about his superiority, soaking in vanity.  
"Well, then you must be enoying the game."  
Sherlock sat back uncomfortable with the realization of how evident it was.  
"I will tell no one." Jim winked.  
Sherlock's phone rang helping him out of another awkward pause for the second time that evening. It was Mycroft from whom he never was pleased to hear but at least he always had words to answer him.  
"What a lovely dinner you two are having. Looking at you now one could be tricked into thinking you are an ordinary couple. I am glad to know your new flatmate is not a ghost judging by the fact he actually eats and food does not fall out of his stomach."  
"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock looked around searching for the cameras. CCTV outside was clearly spying on them.  
"Your new victim was one of our double agents. We have the body."  
"I'm coming!" Sherlock jumped to his feet not bothering about explaining anything to Jim who was finishing his wine and had no chance to say what he thought about being left like that and having to come back home and pay for the taxi alone.  
"I'm not saying you will be allowed..."  
"Oh stop it, otherwise why would you have called?"  
Sherlock was already catching a cab with a demanding hand.  
Watching him gracefully ducking into its black inside Jim was strangely pleased by the thought that out there there was a criminal playing mind games with Sherlock. The man was worth killing someone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game between the killer and Sherlock continues. Jim gets involved by helping Sherlock.

Sherlock was marching back and forward between the kitchen and the living room where Jim was still having his morning coffee writing something at one of his numerous laptops.  
Sherlock himself was slowly cooking skin patches over the burner on the kitchen counter. Jim, it seemed, did not mind only occasionally puckering up as the acrid smell reached his nose.  
"What are you typing?" Jim did not turn around to Sherlock now hanging over his shoulder in the most patronizing manner but did give him a sarcastic smile in the reflection of the monitor.  
"Source code", Jim waited for Sherlock's reaction which was shrugging his shoulders with the disinterested air, it was too hard for him to accept the fact there were certain things he knew almost nothing about.  
He took of his computer glasses and stretched his arms so that Sherlock had to jump back not to get hit on the nose.  
"Sorry. Need another cup."  
It was almost time for Sherlock to check on the skin burning level so they both were standing next to the kitchen counter. Jim stood on his toes searching for biscuits on the upper shelf and his t shirt pulled up a bit uncovering a strip of smooth skin above the waistband of his pajama trousers on the back and a light trail of darker hair on the front. Sherlock looked at him furtively from under his eyebrows but took off his eyes as soon as Jim managed to fish out the package.  
Jim returned to his work and Sherlock pretended he was busy in the kitchen with his experiment. He could hardly stand having no actual case and being forced to wait for the results of the drug expertise of the latest corpse meanwhile Jim seemed to be absorbed in his real and constant work.  
He was already thinking of going out and checking on his homeless network when the doorbell rang. From the duration and the pressure applied and the lack of interruptions Sherlock deduced that there was a guest who was never welcome at Sherlock's but would always ignore the fact.  
Jim looked questioningly at him waiting for his reaction and Sherlock knew there was no chance of pretending nothing was happening. So he went to open the door acting as reluctant as he possibly could.  
Mycroft stepped into the living room with a very sour face. He fixed his gaze on Jim who greeted him quietly and continued typing. Sherlock grimaced from behind his back almost making Jim giggle but he suppressed the impulse the last second.  
"What joy to see you before noon, Mycroft."  
Sherlock dashed to the kitchen sitting with his back towards the door pretending to be so busy staring at the burnt skin under his microscope.  
"You know what happens when you don't return my calls." Mycroft failed to sound menacing, his voice only betrayed his stress.  
"You come over and annoy me to death."  
Mycroft sighed and rubbed his forehead.  
"This is a matter of national importance." He hissed over Sherlock's shoulder but Jim heard it too and made a silent whew and rolled his eyes. The brothers could not see him as they were facing the opposite direction.  
Mycroft placed a phone on the table next to Sherlock's elbow.  
"This one was found on the last body. We need to extract information from here, it is most certainly coded."  
"Why don't you ask your people?" And why did not you tell me this when you called me to come and check on the body?!  
"The information is very private." Mycroft cocked up his brow stressing the word "private".  
"I know you have no cases right now and you could take this. Of course, if the lack of serious work and the scandalous amount of Chinese take away," he darted a look towards Jim's back, "have not made you lose your skills."  
Sherlock jumped to his feet.  
"Nothing makes me lose my skills." He was standing opposite Mycroft almost pushing the tip of his nose against his face and sticking out his chest.  
"Use it or lose it." Mycroft was looking at him with the pleased air of one who had got what he wanted.  
Sherlock snapped the phone and indicated the exit to Mycroft.   
"I will keep you posted."  
He kept his arm stretched out until Mycroft took a step towards the door. Jim shook his head amused by this theatre.  
"And please bother to answer my calls."  
Sherlock could barely contain his disdain. The very thought of having to sit and wait for his opponent to make the next move (make them find the next corpse with a letter on it) was getting his temper.   
He was even more pissed by the fact Mycroft made him look like a fool by hiding the news there was something else on the body but the letter. Clearly they have found it first, removed the phone, called Lestrade, let him have it inspected one more time, removed the corpse from the lab and called Sherlock evidently because they were so desperate to find anything that could give them a clue.  
"So, the mystery of those murders remains a mystery?" Jim watched Sherlock plucking nervously on the violin strings and decided a conversation would cost him less than a two-hour-long concert.  
Sherlock puckered up.  
"Three bodies, all males, apparently gay, not much in common except for the way of dying."  
"Poisoning." Jom nodded.  
"Yes. Hemlock extract. The body is paralyzed and eventually the respiratory system shuts down but the mind is awake."  
Jim cringed imagining the situation.  
"Can it be a clue?"  
"Maybe, but I can't get it." Sherlock had already taken the bow and Jim dreaded the worst.   
"Apart from the clear Sherlock/Hemlock rhyme." Jim shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock turned around fiercely.  
"Do you think the murderer would use such stupid things to get my attention? To adulate my ego?" Sherlock's indignation was far too comical. Jim could not help pinching him a bit.  
"Well, you have said he used that particular ash you have described on your blog."  
"Yes." Sherlock tore the first painfully high note from the violin.  
"He's just flirting with you." Jim grinned making Sherlock turn to the window apparently because he was angry with Jim for his childish remark but actually because his cheeks got rosier and he found himself ridiculously confused by this possibility. The murderer was enfatuated with him? He shook his head in disbelief and it looked like a violinist's move to Jim.  
"Blind spot." He murmured under his nose amazed by how ignorant Sherlock could be at times.  
They did not talk for the rest of the day as Sherlock retreated to his room to try and crack the coded phone. Jim went out for a walk in the evening and at his return Sherlock still showed no desire to communicate.  
The morning after Jim was already working again in the living room when Sherlock came out of his room showing all signs of having had a sleepless night: messed up hair, gloomy face, did not even bother to put on his usual dressing gown having thrown on just a bedsheet instead.  
He was obviously deeply troubled by the fact the phone gave no signs of surrender and no new clues.  
Jim felt like it was time to act generously.  
"Do you want me to give it a look?" He tried to sound as peaceful as he could preparing himself for a rude answer but Sherlock surprisingly enough just nodded and handed him the phone he most certainly had slept with all night.  
While Sherlock was making himself a coffee Jim plugged it into his laptop and managed to go through cripted files trying various tricks to open them. After some minutes one of them worked and Sherlock standing over his shoulder almost jumped in excitement. The folders started popping open eventually occupying the whole screen and forming a strange pattern. Jim furrowed his eyebrows not understanding. He did not like it. He liked it even less when the pattern got an evident resemblance of a skull. Acting on an instinct Jim jumped up and covered Sherlock dragging him down to the floor just a second before the phone and laptop exploded covering everything in chips of plastic and metal. Sherlock hit his head and shoulder against the floor falling and his pulse got out of control. Partly because of the shock and a rapid fall. Partly because Jim was lying on top of him and Sherlock's only cover was his bedsheet which did nothing to hide the secrets of how Jim's body felt. He grew acutely aware of his hands, and elbows, and hips, and legs, and the softness of his belly with a hard buckle of his belt under. He felt his breath on his cheek and his scared eyes open wide were a mere inch from Sherlock's.   
They got up clumsily, Sherlock wrapping himself tight in his bedsheet. The mess on the floor was depressing and so was the sight of Jim's laptop. He groaned in mourning.   
Sherlock's phone broke their shocked silence and Lestrade's voice sounded very distant.  
"Sherlock, listen. There is another one, can you believe it? And the letter is E. H.O.M.E.!!!"  
"Home." Sherlock whispered.  
"Sherlock, I'm sending over my people."  
"There has just been an explosion."  
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" Lestrade gulped.  
"Now it's a real threat."  
Jim startled and crossed his arms as if holding himself.  
They exchanged glances. And the excited sparkle in Sherlock's eyes bothered Jim.  
"I can't wait to see what he is going to do next." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The killing continues and Sherlock still has to understand where it goes. As well as his relationship with Jim which is not easy.

By the time the police and Mycroft's people arrived Sherlock had changed into a navy suit and a white shirt. Jim was drinking coffee complaining about needing something stronger. No one replied to his desperate questions about what he was now supposed to do without his laptop. The air was charged with hatred between the operating groups and Lestrade after the initial shock hissed to Sherlock that he would need to talk to his brother. Sherlock chose to ignore him really not feeling like getting into detail of the tense relationship between the police and the secret service. The remainings of the devices were brought away by Mycroft's people for examination.  
When everybody left Sherlock finally moved from his armchair. He lingered indecisive in the kitchen doorway where the desolated Jim was sitting staring at one point.  
"Thank you..." Sherlock paused, he was not used to saying such words, "for what you have done". Jim turned his head to look at him with a tired smile. "I am sorry about your computer." Sherlock inhaled as if preparing himself for something serious. "I understand if you want to leave at this point, I mean..."  
Jim scoffed.  
"Are you insinuating I should move out?"  
Their eyes met. No, really, Sherlock was not happy with the idea of Jim leaving. He grew accustomed to their peculiar co-existence and was secretly pleased to have someone to talk to on a daily basis. But he realized the current situation was less than favourable for having flatmates.  
"Jim," Moriarty shrugged surprised by being called by his name, it did not happen often with Sherlock, "I am used to living on my own," he paused, "I don't know if I am good enough to live with." He swallowed but his mouth was dry.  
Jim's shoulders went down and his whole body sagged under a invisible weight.  
"You know," when he spoke Sherlock's heart sank at the sadness in his voice, "this is worse than a break up."  
Sherlock gulped for air. He had no other words than "I'm sorry" but he doubted they would do. Jim gave him a helpless look and then stood up and headed to the door grabbing his jacket on the way. The second his sleeve brushed past Sherlock's chest he again felt the warm stirring Jim's closeness started in his body and sensed his pleasant smell.  
The bolt of the door being shut was the fullstop in the unfinished sentence.  
He was alone in his flat wondering whether it was safe for him to stay there. His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Mycroft's driver silently inviting him to get into the car waiting outside. Sherlock hated the power rituals his brother was so fond of.  
"Do you think this is the end?" Mycroft was trying to keep cool but the neck of the bottle of whiskey clank against the edge of the glass when he was pouring himself a drink.  
Sherlock could not leave it unnoticed.  
"You are losing ground."  
Mycroft apparently dreamed of burning his brother with his gaze.  
"That is a weird thing to hear from you, brother dear."  
Sherlock jerked his neck as if caught in short circuit.  
"I will find him." He tried to sound firm but his affirmation was more of a question.  
Mycroft pressed his glass against his aching forehead, the coming hemicrania was already filling his right eye with pulsing pain.  
"Sherlock," his voice was really worried, "this is a dangerous game he is playing with you. You have to figure out the rules or you will lose. Lose your life. I cannot help you if you don't solve the riddle. This is your doing."  
Sherlock did not like to admit that thought scared him. Despite neglecting his brother he always knew he could count on his support but this time it was his and only his task to stop it. He had to get the message.  
"I need to see all corpses."  
In the mortuary he examined the bodies one more time. The new one bore a vague resemblance to Jim and Sherlock cringed a bit uncovering his cold corpse. The letter E on the left side of the chest, right above the heart. Written with ash, grey, thick, oily, though no fingerprints. Must have used a brush.  
He remembered the pounding of his own heart under the weight of Jim's body. He did not feel like staying there getting too distracted and asked for the copies of medical reports to pass through them at home.  
It was already evening when he arrived at Baker St.  
The house was silent, Mycroft had certainly increased the level of surveillance but thankfully it remained invisible. A new laptop was sitting on the table which meant Jim had already came back. Sherlock could hear no sign nor did he see any remaining food in the kitchen. Asking Jim whether he was hungry was a good excuse for talking after their awkward conversation earlier that morning. Sherlock had not eaten anything in the last 24 hours and now his stomach reminded him that he still was human. He walked up the stairs to Jim's room and knocked on the door as gently as he could. A strip of pale light under it confirmed the man's presence inside. Maybe he was working.  
No one replied though and Sherlock took the liberty to push the door slightly. It opened revealing Jim lying on his bed facing the opposite wall. His trainers were left near the bed but his jeans and dark green pullover were still on. Sherlock could not help admiring for a second the grace of his legs, his whole pose was so natural.  
"Jim," he called, "do you want to eat something?"  
He did not move for a second but then he turned slowly and the sight of his face made Sherlock cringe. Jim had a massive bruise on his left jaw and several small ones on his forehead. His neck was sporting fierce marks. He stared at Sherlock with glazed eyes.  
Sherlock forced himself not to rush towards Jim like in bad dramas.  
"Who did this to you?" Sherlock's voice cracked. The most disturbing thing was that in the back of his mind a thought flashed: maybe his opponent revealed himself and came to beat up Sherlock's flatmate. Home. He wrote home. Was he threatening to kill Jim then? But that would mean he thought it could get Sherlock. Was there anything the killer could know about Sherlock what he himself ignored.  
"Your brother." The answer dropped like a stone and Sherlock's stomach clenched in a spasm.  
"They wanted to know whether I had an alibi." Jim had a hard time speaking with the lip split.  
White rage raised like a wave in Sherlock's chest.  
He rushed down the stairs to grab his phone.  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He yelled as soon as Mycroft answered.  
"We have to check everybody. And it was when he was manipulating the phone when it exploded." Mycroft's business tone got Sherlock's nerve.  
"He saved me and his laptop was blown up."  
"We gave him a new one." Mycroft clearly was not getting what was wrong.  
"Your people have beaten him." Sherlock had to remind himself he had to control his breath in order to speak.  
"We had to be absolutely sure." Mycroft paused. "This is for your safety."  
Sherlock passed to furious hissing.  
"Listen, brother, don't you never ever again touch him."  
"Oh, brother," Sherlock could hear Mycroft's smirk, "I had no idea. Look at you, showing some human attachment. I have almost lost hope."  
"Do you understand me?" Sherlock roared, " Don't you ever touch Jim."  
Mycroft was clearly going to answer something bitter but was interrupted by some urgent communication.  
"Sherlock," his voice trembled suddenly, "there has been another murder."  
"What?" Sherlock gulped, that was too soon. More victims then?  
"The letter?" He wished he could wake up from that bad dream.  
Mycroft did not reply at once. Sherlock could hear him sucking in air.  
"S."  
A white flash turned him blind for a second.  
"Homes."  
"Mommy." Mycroft's voice dropped and Sherlock could not feel his lungs opening. A red alarm started in his brain and its flashing light was unbearable. Miles away from him Mycroft froze in his armchair hit by the same primal horror.  
"I'm coming." Sherlock exhaled hanging up.  
"So what about dinner?" Jim was standing behind his back but when Sherlock turned around he stumbled back at the sight of his face which turned white.  
"My parents are in danger."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to terms with certain feelings.

The next two days were a horrible string of hasty trips back and forward. Sherlock moved like a robot but at the end it was all settled.  
Mycroft had moved the parents to one of his secret bunkers and his team was checking their house up and down.  
"What did she say?"  
Mycroft sighed and then his face got an expression of slight mockery.  
"That I was restricting her freedom because she now can't get out for a while to get milk."  
Sherlock smirked.  
He was not the best son ever and the relationship with his mommy and daddy was not always smooth but he undoubtedly found comfort in knowing they were okay and safe. He wished he himself was okay and safe as well.  
He returned to the laboratory to check on the bodies once again. Nothing, nothing but the stupid threatening letters. How much more of them? Will he keep sending these messages? Will the next letter will be written on his own body?  
Sherlock thought of dying, lying there paralyzed, unable to move, still capable of thinking though waiting for the lungs to give up. Being trapped in his own body with that restless mind of his.  
At some point he started dozing over the papers and only the urge of the lab assistant made him wake up and decide it was time to catch a cab home. He thought of Jim whom he had not seen for a couple of days since their last talk. He was reluctant to come back to the empty house even if now he was sure it was hardly a dangerous place to be as the criminal was unlikely to strike again in the same fashion. He needed sleep.  
He walked up the stairs and left his coat on the hook. Passing through the dark living room he was stopped by the sight of an immovable silhouette sitting on the couch. The figure turned its head and Sherlock recognized the familiar spiky profile. Jim. His face was pale in the dark while his eyes seemed two black wells. The bruises and marks on his skin were still swollen but looked a bit better.  
"Sherlock, I'm staying." His steady voice was low and Sherlock instinctively sat down next to him only to hear it better.  
They were sitting there, two figurines close but not touching and the beating of their hearts was almost audible.  
"My parents' house is thought to be under attack now." Sherlock said tired closing his eyes momentarily. He wished it was not true.  
"Is your mum okay?" Jim's light fingers squeezed Sherlock's hand gently making him shiver slightly. He was not sure whether it was the effect of the concerned words or the touch.  
"Yes." Sherlock replied simply and was thankful for the darkness as his throat clenched. No one ever asked him about his mommy like that. Did he care? He'd say he did not. Did he need that? More than he would admit.  
Jim's fingers caressed the back of Sherlock's hand passing over the pattern of his veins. Jim's touch was soft and hot and Sherlock wondered what the rest of his body would feel like. Would it be hot and soft or hard and shivering? He himself was having goosebumps. Lack of sleep and food and this unexpected caress were draining him of his energy. He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. So when Jim pushed him back against the cushions he simply obeyed and let him get closer. Their noses touched and Sherlock felt the weight of Jim's body on his hip where he was leaning on. He only wanted to sleep, he did not want to get closer, to develop new attachments. He had few and he feared he could lose them in this game. He could not let Jim hold him, touch him like that, get in his head, strip him off the layers of his armor.  
Jim sensed the rigidity of Sherlock's body under his own, the way he held his breath and understood it immediately. He distanced himself in a smooth movement, curling back like a spring.  
He stood up silently and looked down at Sherlock giving him a minute to think. Getting no reaction he slowly turned around and headed towards his room upstairs. Sherlock cursed himself for not being able to move as the fear took over him and he was almost shaking and the only parts of his body that were hot were those where Jim had touched him.  
Upstairs Jim could not yet calm down and convince himself he had to go to sleep. The feeling of Sherlock's eagerness and hesitation still lingered on him. He played the expression of his face over and over again and only wished he could make him relax and let go for a moment.  
He froze for a second upon a sudden knock on the door. He hardly wanted to have a "we are just flatmates, you got it wrong" conversation right now but staying there without opening the door was too much for him.  
In the dim light of the single desk lamp Sherlock's face looked paler than usual. Jim had no deduction skills but could read it like a book: anxious eyes, forehead with the thinnest haze of sweat making the curls cling to it, lips clutching and unclutching, repeating the rhythm of his breath, the vein on his temple swallen and pulsing. He stood there, sharp like a figurine in his white shirt and black trousers, hands down.  
Jim reached out to take his right palm, caress the back of his hand. He felt the pulse drumming heavily through the veins palpable under his touch.  
"It's okay to want it."  
Jim's voice opened the silence like a curtain between them. In a moment he saw Sherlock's traces relaxed, relieved, softened. The acknowledgement washing over his mind but a moment after doubt hit him. What am I going to do now? His palm startled under Jim's fingers and he had to squeeze it to reassure him.  
He brought it to his lips to brush against his fingertips and to place it over his shoulder. This manipulation helped Sherlock regain the awareness of his body, of its needs. He clutched Jim's shoulder as if holding on to it, pleading him to save him from falling.  
Jim brought his second hand onto his other shoulder and pulled Sherlock closer holding his slim waist. Sherlock trembled when their faces touched as Jim placed a light kiss on the corner of his lips. Light enough to be pushed back easily whenever Sherlock decided to stop, hot enough to make him want to continue. Sherlock's limbs went numb but his neck tilted instinctively under Jim's mouth asking to be kissed. His neck, the dimple between his clavicles, the patch behind his earlobe, his mouth again, waiting, thirsty. He let him drink his kiss as if it were water and he had been dehydrated for too long. As their tongues touched Sherlock's hips protruted inwards and Jim placed his palms over them encouraging the move. His own heart was pounding with the excitement of being wanted, being reached for, asked for. Each Sherlock's move cried inexperience and insecurity and need. The need to be reassured. Jim distanced himself a bit breaking the kiss and took off his t shirt offering Sherlock the view of his naked torso, slim and smooth, just a bit plumpy over the waist band of his jeans. He let Sherlock look at him and then pressed his body flush against his. Jim's warmth felt like hot lava and Sherlock found himself melting, trembling, getting obedient under his touch. Jim's fingers untucked Sherlock's shirt from his trousers as his mouth went down kissing the trail in the middle of the torso making a string inside his chest flutter. He let Jim take off his shirt and lead him to the bed walking on unsteady legs. He lied down taking off his shoes as Jim was kissing his neck and shoulders kicking off his trainers and socks and then jeans.  
Before Jim opened the button of Sherlock's trousers he made his hands wander all over Sherlock's stomach and with each brush of their fingers Sherlock's eyes grew wider and wetter and his breath became shallow.  
Jim placed his hands over Sherlock's hips and Sherlock mirrored his movement fighting the urge to pull down his black boxers. Before Jim leaned in to sweep away each single thought in Sherlock's head with his kiss, he looked down at him, ready and shy and staring at him with his wonderful eyes, trusting him with his fragile nature.  
"I'll be delicate."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gets sick and Sherlock takes care of him.  
> Shall I say fluff?

"What are you doing?"  
Jim reluctantly opened one eye at the shift of the weight on the bed. He turned to the side taking a chance to stretch the muscles of his right arm that was going numb.  
Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed with two smoking mugs in his hands.  
"Coffee?" He handed one of them to the surprised Jim who slowly sat up, rubbed his face and accepted the coffee with a slight grin: Sherlock making him coffee was something utterly unexpected. But then it had been their first night and probably Jim was yet to discover surprising things about his bed... flatmate.  
"No biscuits?"  
Sherlock shook his head. Their place could hardly fit the definition of a domestic paradise.  
They were drinking in silence and Sherlock was growing aware of the rising undeniable attraction. He feared the last night had been just a slip into weakness, the physical surrender to tiredness, loneliness and stress.  
Jim finished his coffee and put away the mug. His eyes were shiny, lips reddened and his hand was now tripping up Sherlock's thigh under his silk dressing gown. The touch was burning, he was hot and the best solution was getting rid of his only garment and slipping back next to Jim who still wore nothing but his malicious grin.  
The sensation of Jim's flesh pressed against his own brought him back to the darkness that had swallowed their intertwined bodies to release them a couple of hours later panting, and sticky, full of the new knowledge about each other. Sherlock was grateful for the darkness and hours of rest after when he had a chance to process that new experience, let his mind come to terms with what had happened to his body listening to Jim's peaceful breath next to his ear.  
Now Jim was unbearably hot, so hot Sherlock needed to distance himself and plant a soothing kiss on Jim's forehead which was burning too. Sherlock held his lips pressed to it for a second more and then took Jim's wrist to count his pulse. The defenseless sensation of the vein pulsing under his fingers was inebriating. It was Jim's beating heart.  
"I believe you've got fever."  
Jim smirked but actually a worried expression fell over his face. He touched his own forehead.  
"Now that I am thinking about it maybe the pain in my bones was caused by something else than..." he trailed a finger over Sherlock's shoulder, "you."  
"Stay here, I will be back soon." Sherlock slipped out of the bed leaving Jim laid back a bit weak.  
"I've got work to do." He protested without sounding too convinced.  
"Later." Sherlock was already putting on his trousers previously abandoned on the floor. Jim was watching him from under his heavy eyelids with a feeble smile. He was going to take a chance to rest for a bit while his mind was replaying the most explicit parts of the past night.  
In half an hour Sherlock was back with a bag of medicines and a thermometer.  
Jim took his temperature which registered above 37.8. Jim whewed displeased.  
"Fever it is." Sherlock confirmed and started taking the medicines off the bag and placing them on Jim's nightstand.  
"Fever when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight, fever in the morning and fever all through the night." Jim snapped his fingers and grinned playfully at Sherlock who was not getting the reference.  
"Elvis Presley." He continued with "fever, fever, fever" in a high pitch.  
Sherlock was not inclined to take the situation lightly and handed him an aspirin pill and a glass of water.  
"Do you know the self treatment with aspirin can be a cause of severe poisoning and even death?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"Yes."  
He paused.  
"I'll keep an eye on you."  
Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when Jim gave him that look. Eyes opening slowly, dark lashes casting a shadow over his gaze full of shy hope: will you? Will you really take care of me?  
"And you should eat first. I will make toasts and tea."  
Sherlock felt strangely excited preparing this simple meal for Jim and bringing it upstairs. He never did so before, it was a totally new activity for him which he was not particularly good at but nevertheless it brought him an unexpected sense of satisfaction.  
He had to go out to see Mycroft for the update on the security plan.  
"I believe you understand we should wait before letting you see them." Mycroft was even more patronizing than usual. "We cannot risk their safety because he is probably watching all your movements. I insist on installing cameras inside the flat too."  
As if not having a chance to see his parents was not enough Sherlock was now threatened to be watched inside his home too. By his big brother.  
"No." He replied a bit too hasty and irritated. "No." He managed to control his voice the second time.  
Mycroft gave him a piercing look, one of those an owl gives to a mouse it is going to eat.  
"Reason?"  
Sherlock met his gaze with the "think-what-you-fucking-want" cocky expression.  
Mycroft obviously was not going to play this guessing game. He was far too tired to try to convince his unbearable little brother to act like a grown up once in a while. He did provide security for his parents and that was more than enough at that point.  
So he simply gave up.  
"Okay."  
Sherlock was not going to spend any more time in the company of a man who had ordered to beat Jim to that horrible ink-coloured bruises on his ribs and back. Enough to hurt him, not enough to break him. Sherlock felt the urge to go home and check on Jim, not to place a kiss over each marked spot as he did last night but just to stay close.  
Evidently, his thoughts made him blush a little and the colour of his cheeks could not escape Mycroft's attention.  
"Are you feeling alright?"  
"I think I have got fever and need to stay in bed for a while."  
"But you never..." Mycroft started protesting.  
"Must be the stress." Sherlock stood up. "Gotta go." He could not wait to get out of that place.  
"I will send a doctor." Mycroft could be the most annoying person in the world but he did care.  
"No. I will just take aspirin." Sherlock was already at the threshold. "All I need is rest. So please do _not_ disturb." And then he left.  
Seeing the door closing Mycroft thought of how his brother's character complicated other people's lives.  
He dialed a number and waited for a polite reply.  
"Do we have the results of the expertise of the phone and the laptop?" Mycroft puckered up displeased. "How much more? What do you mean another weak? Hurry up." Mycroft hang up that hard the phone shattered.  
Getting some chicken soup was one of those spontaneous ideas that work unexpectedly well.  
Jim was sleeping when Sherlock returned and he took a minute to watch him to study him better. There was some easiness about him Sherlock did not have himself, the freedom of poses. They had different kinds of energy and Jim's presence in the house seemed to equilibrate Sherlock's bad temper.  
He was passing over his site re-reading his own words about the ash the murderer chose to use. Leather paper ash.  
He spent about two hours trying to get some new information passing over the case files when Jim went down from his bedroom wearing a sweatshirt over his pajamas. He was visibly sick and very sleepy. He stopped at the living room threshold and greeted Sherlock with a wave of a hand.  
"I brought some soup." Sherlock stood up and gestured towards the cup.  
Jim cocked up his eyebrow, surprised and incredibly pleased.  
"Thank you."  
They ate lunch in the kitchen amid Sherlock's impossible stuff placed over each surface present. Their silence was cozy even if Jim was shivering slightly at the pain cracking his body.  
"My mum used to make me this soup when I was a kid and got sick." Jim was staring at his plate in a momentarily flashback.  
"Where is she now?" Sherlock thought about his own mum closed in a bunker now because of him.  
Jim shrugged his shoulders reluctantly.  
"She's not here."  
"I'm sorry."  
Jim looked up at him with reddened eyes and there was a tender haze in his gaze.  
"It's okay." He was visibly exhausted by a mere act of sitting.  
"You need to sleep."  
"You too."  
"I'll come and check on you later."  
And he did.  
Lying down next to Jim changed in his pajamas Sherlock was not sure why he was there. Taking care was not his usual doing but he just felt like sleeping next to Jim that night.  
"Don't you worry it is contagious? You should take aspirin too just in case."  
Jim mumbled pressing his back against Sherlock's chest, nestling under the blankets.  
"I don't take medicines."  
Jim brought Sherlock's hand over his chest now lying wrapped into it.  
"Why?"  
Sherlock paused as if thinking whether to be honest.  
"They are called drugs for a reason."  
His eyes went hazy, distant for a second as if looking inside his memory.  
"I've been into rehab. More than once. Not much fun."  
His sad smile was not very convincing. He was glad Jim could not see his face. It was liberating, he could speak freely.  
"The thing with drugs..." he paused searching for words and courage to confess, "the thing with drugs is they help you jump over the abyss. Because you are scared to look down and you feel dizzy when you get close to the edge. Drugs help you jump. The problem is once you jump the crack grows and when you have to jump again the leap should be longer. So you take more drugs to jump better, to speed up, to touch the ground. It's like dreaming but at the end when you wake up you know you are dead. You want to never fall asleep. The very idea of falling is unbearable. There is nothing out there that I fear more than this fall. Because one day it will all end. The drugs will end or the heart will stop and then I will slip, fall and go down to the bottom of this abyss."  
He squeezed his eyes tight and when he finally opened them Jim who had turned around, saw that his pupils were so big that they had almost swallowed his alien irises. Sherlock's mouth was stiff but Jim noticed the slightest tremble of the lower lip and in that moment he knew Sherlock only wanted to be held down.  
So he closed his hot fingers around Sherlock's wrist feeling the rushing pulse.  
"I will not let you land."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night. The investigation continues. Bits of Mycroft's past.

"Can't we just have take away?"  
Sherlock was reluctant to stand up and leave his computer.  
"It's not about eating. It's about going out."  
"I'm not really hungry anyway."  
"Come on, I'm offering tonight. Just want to thank you for having taken care of me."  
"I'm glad you're better."  
Jim looked positively healthy, only the blueish shadows under his eyes revealed his recent sickness. "You will be even gladder after dinner." Jim grinned at him and moved his eyebrow seductively.  
Sherlock gave him a long look. They have not had sex since the first night some days prior but had slept together ever since. He had to admit while he enjoyed their intimacy and wanted more he felt a bit unsure of himself and out of his depth. He desperately needed guidance and woke up at night at the sensation of Jim's hips pressed against his groin torn apart by desire and the impulse to escape this unexpected proximity that had stirred his previously quite peaceful erotically speaking existence.  
Jim leaned in bringing his mouth closer to Sherlock's ear and passing his palms over Sherlock's shoulders caressing them.  
"And besides," he whispered making his lips trip slowly down the shell of Sherlock's ear, "I just want to show you off."  
Sherlock found himself irritated by the idea of being a trophy but disturbingly flattered by it at the same time. He hummed something incomprehensible as Jim's hand popped open a couple of buttons on his shirt and slid under teasing his chest. He was too tempted to stay at home now and he tilted his head backwards hoping for a kiss. His move did not escape Jim's attention and he chuckled pleased.  
"Pleasure is more intense if you wait for it first."  
During the dinner when they were sitting in a sort of booth Jim could not help touching him all the time almost under the waiter's eyes. Sherlock was equally annoyed and turned on by his small moves and after the third glass of wine when Jim pulled him really close and kissed him hard Sherlock lost his temper. He felt this was a tricky game he could not keep up with. He was pulled in the epicenter of this small hurricane and could not really tell what had happened before they got inside the dark flat stumbling and pulling at each others clothes. They did not make it to Jim's room that time falling on Sherlock's bed. Hypnotized by his own actions and reactions Sherlock watched their movements as if it were a film. He only woke up when his eyes fell upon a still very visible and painful bruise with a side scratch on Jim's lower back. It reminded him of Mycroft and the case and his parents still under surveillance and the fact the killer was still out there and was dangerous and potentially deadly for him. These thoughts made him ache and the first impulse was to go and get some cocaine, to sniff it, to lick his fingers and powder his gums. But instead he inhaled Jim's clean warm scent and licked the thinnest sheen of sweat off the groove of Jim's spine. The sounds Jim was making and the slight excited writhing of his body hit Sherlock's bloodstream harder than any drug.  
They fell asleep, exhausted and still high on their recent orgasms, in a nest of sheets in the middle of a black universe where nothing else but the two of them mattered.  
Until there was a very insistent door bell ring. Jim grumbled and flipped on his back. Then he reluctantly opened one eye and checked the time on his mobile.  
"Come on! It's past 3 a.m.", he facepalmed and addressed Sherlock who kept lying still ignoring the annoying trill. "I can bet this is for you."  
Sherlock could not pretend anylonger nothing was happening. He blindly groped for his dressing gown thrown over the back of the chair standing next to the bed and stumbled into the living room cursing. He knew exactly who was ringing the bell and he knew something had happened.  
When he opened the door Mycroft stormed into the house shouting something about his irresponsibility and the perennial habit not to answer his phone (Sherlock wondered whether he had not really heard the calls or had just ignored them too taken by Jim's body).  
Mycroft kept shouting and getting angrier and angrier looking for the switch to turn on the light. When he finally succeeded to do so Sherlock had to cover his eyes with his palm to protect his pupils from excessive light. Mycroft mirrored his gesture upon seeing a grey t shirt and a familiar black jacket abandoned on the floor.  
"Oh," he exhaled, shocked, "I see now."  
Sherlock met his steely gaze cocking up his chin with no intention to feel ashamed.  
His lips curved in a bitter smile.  
"You are getting thicker with age."  
He felt surprisingly relieved and somehow proud of this whole situation. Yes, he had slept with Jim, no, he had nothing to hide.  
"Get dressed, we've got another corpse. Your friend Lestrade is already at St. Bart's. They have found it and brought it to the laboratory."  
Sherlock's heart gave a heavy beat. There. Here it comes. Another one.  
"Any letter?"  
"We don't know yet." Mycroft was deeply troubled.  
"Then why have you come?" Sherlock was Holmes starting to feel mad.  
"This one was one of ours. Time ago." Mycroft was struggling with words.  
Sherlock already opened his mouth to ask questions but Mycroft stopped him.  
"I'll wait in the car."  
Sherlock dashed into his room angry but curious. He found his clothes and got dressed hastily in the light of a night lamp under Jim's sleepy gaze who have heard it all from the bedroom.  
Sherlock could not help but cast a glance at his body with its silhouette clearly visible under a thin bedsheet. He suddenly felt so thankful for having Jim by his side, representing normality and fun which had been missing in his life for far too long.  
Before he rushed back into the living room to get his jacket and coat he leaned down to kiss Jim's shoulder.  
"Don't wait for me." Jim's response was ruffling up Sherlock's hair tenderly and going back to sleep.  
In the car Mycroft was paler than before. His lips were clutched hard as he was watching Sherlock sitting next to him.  
"Don't get involved, Sherlock."  
His brother turned his head to the window ignoring him.  
"This is not good for you, Sherlock. It clouds your mind."  
Waking up in the middle of the night was not enough, Mycroft had to be extremely patronising as well.  
In the morgue they were met by Lestrade, too agitated by the new body and apparently too much coffee, and Molly who had not any yet and was barely keeping herself from yawning.  
"There," Lestrade gestured towards the body lying on the slab. It was swollen and showing decomposition marks. "Found in the Thames."  
Molly looked at him questioningly.  
"We think it is connected with those other murders."  
Sherlock was losing his patience and stepped closer to inspect the corpse.  
"Here," Molly showed a small cut over his left nipple, "we have found some ash in the cut. The letter must have been cancelled by staying in the water." Sherlock inhaled through his teeth. "But," Molly made a small wave with her hand preventing criticism, "I have run a small test, I have sprayed a special chemical on his skin and... would you please turn off the light, Greg? Thank you. You see, here, it could be an L, don't you think?"  
In the darkness a feeble trace with a straight angle was showing on the corpse's chest.  
In that moment Mycroft who had been previously occupied in a phone call in the corridor, walked into the room turning on the light. And for the second time that night that only brought him an unpleasant shock.  
Upon seeing the corpse he wavered, gasped and dashed out of the room.  
Sherlock got everything by the look in his eyes: the urge not to believe what he was seeing, the utter horror and grief.  
Lestrade and Molly exchanged puzzled glances.  
"Continue", Sherlock commanded, "how much time ago did he die?"  
"Approximately a couple of weeks to ten days ago."  
"Was he naked?"  
"No," Molly shook her head, "we have removed the clothes. We have found skin fragments and blood under the buckle of his jeans. I think he struggled, tried to assault the killer."  
"We are running DNA match tests from our database." Lestrade tried to catch Sherlock's gaze who went numb for a moment entering his information processing mode.  
"Good, keep me informed." Sherlock squeezed out and walked out of the room to reach Mycroft in the corridor.  
He was smoking and his hand holding a cigarette was shaking slightly.  
Sherlock stood next to him and took off a cigarette for himself from his pocket lighting it up with his brother's lit one waiting for him to speak.  
"Sebastian Moran." When Mycroft finally did his voice was cracked, "he was our agent. Later betrayed us and escaped to join the biggest criminal web in London." Sherlock waited for him to continue. "We had been... linked. For some time." Mycroft took a deep shaky drag. "He later used everything he had got from me to damage my work."  
He let out a cloud of smoke anf turned to face Sherlock.  
"That's why I told you not to get involved". His eyes were big and wet.  
He dropped the stub and slowly walked away.  
Sherlock found himself shaking slightly. It must have been the morgue cold.  
In the cab an acute headache hit him.  
L. There was an L too. It was not HOMES. It was HOLMES.  
This one had been intentionally hidden because he had struggled and probably hit the killer. He must have some mark from that buckle. A nasty bruise, maybe a cut from the prong.  
Maybe they struggled and Moran tried to jump on his back to strangle him. Maybe then the buckle could have hit his lower back. Maybe...  
Sherlock froze and almost fell from his seat. A flashback of Jim's bruised flesh rose in front of his eyes. A bruise and a scratch.  
His mouth went dry, blood pounded painfully in his temples.  
With his fingers barely holding his phone he wrote a message and hit "Send".  
"I'm coming home, Jim." He whispered to himself. "I'm coming home."

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter.  
> Nothing more to add. Just read it.

Stepping into the silent flat Sherlock could almost hear the beating of his own heart for how loud it was. He was sure Jim was waiting for him there. He could not tell whether Jim had already been informed about the found corpse, but even if he was still oblivious to the fact he would have sensed Sherlock's change of heart. He knew pretending was pointless, he was naked to Jim's eye.

In the living room a lamp was on. Sherlock paused before stepping into the light. He stopped behind the door frame and inhaled. Facing Jim was not an easy thing to do.

"Could not bat an eyelid without you, _love_."

Jim's usual soft and charming voice was now pinching, high-pitched, theatrical.

And the person sitting in a leather armchair Sherlock saw upon entering was anyone else but Jim, his Jim.

A figure clad into an impeccably tailored grey suit, with his raven hair slicked back and the most mocking and self-content grin Sherlock had ever seen.

"You have changed.” Sherlock kept observing him. Aside from the obvious now posh-y touch the biggest change were Jim’s eyes: the warm softness and cheeky light in them had been replaced by dark excitement, danger and chameleonic glimmer.

“Got a bit tired of those Topman t-shirts. Though you seemed to like them.” Jim winked and Sherlock could not help but think of how he had pulled Jim’s grey top off him in that very living room just hours prior.

He had to concentrate on these new circumstances. He had to focus.

_This is not good for you, Sherlock. It clouds your mind._

Mycroft’s words popped up in his head. Maybe he was right. He certainly was right. The only thing Sherlock had to do now was to make his aching heart shut up.

"You lied to me." Sherlock's voice lowered. "You lied to fool me."

He did not want to sound hurt. But could he? He snapped his gun looking for a comforting something.

Jim grinned even wider. Clearly, he was enjoying that face-off. It was the epic climax of that whole show he had put on.

"You got so absorbed in solving the riddle that you missed the obvious, the most evident things.” Jim stood up and closed the distance between them. “The poison I used, Sherlock, numbs the body but spares the mind. Does not it remind you of something? Your own body. The trap to your mind. All you had to do was to surrender to your body. How long did it take you? How much overthinking in everything you did. At some point I lost any hope you would get it. You can be so thick at times. How much effort did you put in your denial of attraction between us. You see, Sherlock, I am so much smarter than you. I knew right away we would have clicked. Even the disguise as the poor Jim did not stop you from wanting it. You were inevitably dragged towards me by your instinct. You knew that, you knew that right away that we were made for each other. You sensed it just like a bloodhound senses a bleeding animal. And you felt I was bleeding. For you, Sherlock.”

Jim’s eyes turned somehow softer, that theatre was getting something in him too.

“Then this bullet will make no difference." Sherlock pointed his cocked gun against Jim's chest squeezing it so hard his hand went numb.

"Are you really going to do this now, Sherlock?" Jim looked into his eyes and Sherlock saw there his own reflection, it was like as if his doppelganger was looking out of Jim's head, out of his mind. Jim was waiting for the next step completely calm and even curious. "Are you really? After all we have been through?"  Jim moved closer and Sherlock almost took a step back but resisted at the last moment.

"You can't prove our..."

"Say it, Sherlock, say it. Connection, affair, love?" He rolled the last word in his mouth savouring it.

"You can't prove it." Sherlock was challenged not to blink as Jim’s gaze was steady and immovable.

“My people have taken pictures of us sitting in that restaurant. Remember? We were kissing, Sherlock. Just a snap of my fingers and you will be on every first page of every tabloid. You will be discredited, the police will never address you again. You are not reliable. You have brought the killer to know the details of the investigation. You failed in every possible sense. You see, everybody has their blind spot. And what was yours? L, Sherlock, the l-word. How bitterly ironic it is. What did you think? Hoping to find domestic bliss with the unremarkable Jim from IT. Come on, Sherlock, you deserve so much more.” Jim picked up an invisible hair off Sherlock’s shoulder making him twitch.

“I did not know who you were.” Sherlock wished he could have play it all back, to that moment when he fell asleep next to Jim and to restart it again, re-live it, wake up from this bad dream.

“Who'd believe you? You have been living with a guy who committed murders writing your name on the corpses. Isn't it the ultimate romance?” Jim pressed his clutched hands to his heart.

"Maybe you were writing my brother's name. I can't prove it now but I suspect all the victims were connected. Agents, double agents or agents to be. You are the enemy of the system, how could you resist shattering it?

"Mmm, clever boy." He sized up Sherlock and his gaze could not hide the appreciation, the carnal, animal one.

"But I have to disappoint you, I did not kill them, Sebastian did. When I told your brother's people I had an alibi I was not lying." He giggled. “So the beating I had got was soooo unfair. Poooor Jim.” He grimaced as if in pain. “Needed just a bit of comfort.” His eyes flashed and Sherlock’s memory transported him to their first night, the way they were holding each other on that narrow bed of Jim’s, it could not be all fake, he shook his head in disbelief, no.

"But how? Sebastian was dead before the last three." He had to concentrate on the questions.

Jim chuckled too pleased with himself.

"Some substances can accelerate body decomposition. How would you have found him exactly when it was time? Do you think I could have left it up to chance? After risking it and killing him myself? I would have never done this myself but he was slipping out of hand, should have known better after the way he had betrayed your brother. A leopard never changes its spots.” Jim sighed theatrically.

"But you did. You did leave it all up to chance. With me.”

"Chance?" Jim suddenly turned very serious and looked intensely at Sherlock. For a moment he saw Jim he had talked to in the dead of the night lying next to him, with their bodies intertwined.

"Nothing was random, Sherlock. I did everything to make you fall for me. Everything to make you surrender. Do you remember how it felt, Sherlock, when you gave in? Remember how good it felt? Remember what you were telling me, that sweet ordinary nonsense. So little it takes to blow your mind.” Jim’s smile grew almost nostalgic.

“What if I had never uncovered the truth? What if the corpses would have never been connected. What if I had never seen that mark on your back?”

Sherlock felt he was getting the upper hand. Jim could not have been that clever. He could not have calculated everything with such precision. This is not possible.

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

“But it did happen, Sherlock.”  He looked him in the eye and finally there was no stupid pretense in his expression.  It was just a cold statement of facts. “You see how well I know you. You see how I push your buttons.” Sherlock’s breath came shallow. The proximity of their bodies was distracting him. The endearing softness of Jim-from-IT’s nature was gone but the new Jim in his full vigor was even more attractive. Sherlock would have liked saying he felt nothing but his heart skipped a beat when Jim stepped in closer, unbearably close, completely ignoring the gun still pushed against his chest. Sherlock’s arm shook.

“If you fell for that poor Jim think how you would feel about the real me.” His voice dropped to a seductive whisper.

“But you had fallen for me even earlier.” Sherlock was not going to lose this game. “You have staged it all, prepared traps for me. Plotted all this complex schemes. How obsessed you should have been.” He almost felt proud, flattered by his own conclusion. He wanted Jim to lose his cool for a moment, to back off.

But Jim was hardly caught off balance by his words. On the contrary, he looked pleased with Sherlock’s realization.

“Of course, dear,” his voice was almost tender, he looked at Sherlock lovingly, “of course, I did, for so many years I have been watching you,” he closed his eyes as if too full of emotions, “for so many years”, he opened them and Sherlock could see no pupils in them, they had gone completely black. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand pulling him closer, pushing his gun harder against his shirt. His hot whisper flooded over Sherlock’s cheek.

“I am unarmed. You can check.” He pushed his hips against Sherlock’s and now they were standing completely face to face and body to body.

“You must have your snipers ready.” Sherlock’s head was heavy, he felt Jim too close and his hand was going numb, always less certain to shoot at any moment.

“There is no one,” Jim’s body was trembling with passion, his voice got lower, Sherlock felt he was getting aroused, “only you and me, you and me, Sherlock,” Jim’s hand snaked around his waist, Sherlock could not help but give a shaky breath feeling Jim’s fingers tugging at the waistband of his trousers. He turned his head so that their lips almost brushed together as he was speaking.

“You and me,” he repeated and his voice was hypnotizing Sherlock, he felt the wet touch of Jim’s mouth on his, their chests rising together with the gun clutched between their bodies getting more and more turned on. “I don’t want to play this game without you.” Jim’s second hand was pulling the gun closer to his throat. “If you want to kill me, just do it. But then follow me.” He closed his eyes and inhaled hard against the barrel bringing it under his chin. Sherlock held his breath. Jim felt it and his eyes flew open.

“Or come with me, Sherlock.” The heat of his body pressed against Sherlock’s was sending all his thoughts off the rails. The same exact phrase rang in Sherlock’s head from the last night and Jim could not have used it just casually. He certainly remembered Sherlock on the verge of his orgasm. “Come with me, Sherlock.”

Their eyes met and Sherlock could not bring himself to step back, to leave this circle, that game was too exciting, no matter how much it could have cost him, he wanted to play it, hating himself for it and indulging himself into it. Jim closed his mouth on Sherlock’s who could not resist it any longer. They were standing there trapped in that inevitable kiss with the gun ready to send a bullet through Jim’s skull and Sherlock’s hand too weak to pull the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everybody for reading, commenting and leaving kudos!  
> I really enjoyed writing this story and could not thank you all enough for your priceless support!  
> Special thanks to aquamarinechocolate (goldenfairy) who has been just too kind and super supportive! <3<3<3


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